


Parasite

by orphan_account



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Dubious Consent, Implied/Referenced Brainwashing, M/M, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-24
Updated: 2014-04-24
Packaged: 2018-01-20 14:54:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1514543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rumlow is the only thing that makes sense in his darkness. Pre-CA:WS (kind of).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Parasite

**Author's Note:**

  * For [quartermaster](https://archiveofourown.org/users/quartermaster/gifts).



> **Mentions of dubcon.** Short fic for a friend. (u suck Jen) This was not very seriously written, but there you go.

Rumlow had been so big in his mouth. Too full, most of the time, something that hadn't ceased since the start of this arrangement, despite how many times he'd taken the soldier's cock somewhere dark and hidden. Even so, it hadn't been hidden from _him_. He'd started falling to his knees willingly, before it was even suggested from crass lips, or as an order— though it had never been too far from willing to begin with, because how could he say no? "No" wasn't a word that occurred to him within these walls.

He was a yes-man. He was the ever-abiding and ever-deadly weapon, and it seemed like someone had finally figured out that the obedience wasn't skin deep, or bought with money alone.

It's always too deep, always too much for him to handle, always as shamefully needed a sensation time after time, and this was no different—  gaze cast up at Rumlow's imposing figure hovering in front of him; power, but in a different way than his owner (all business, or back to the chair), raw and self-assured in a way he might have ripped from a target's chest in any other circumstance. Now, he watches from narrowed, almost pleading eyes beneath bangs he'd hope would soon be pressed to his skin with sweat or yanked as his face was pushed to the wall, or maybe the floor, or anywhere Rumlow wanted to fuck him. _Anywhere_. His skin feels hot, and damp where the other had come on his face just a moment before.

"Please…" Comes a rough, almost primitive request, voice so unused to sounding unless it's ordered, making the broken tone of it even more pathetic to his own ears. It's hard to care. He's _so_ hard it's almost painful, and the other doesn't even seem to notice— though it's clear he must, because he always does. Something between shame and fierce, confused arousal roils deep in his belly in response, pulsing to where his dick is confined visibly against his pants.

Rumlow says nothing at first, simply staring down at him with a look of sheer disgust— just what he deserves, mind you, but it does little to ease his physical state. Then appears the other's hand, and he doesn't even flinch as his face is seized, hard fingertips curled beneath his jaw and a thumb pressed painfully to his cheekbone, holding it in place. He tries not to groan in anticipation of more, but it's tough, a low sound slipping out anyway. His throat feels dry, but at the same time he can still taste Rumlow on his tongue, and it keeps the appearance of hot, rigid flesh in his mind's eye.

"You got something to say?"

 _Give it to me, please_ — no. That's not what he needs to say, though it's what he wants. How could he communicate how much he needs this? How the man who could break that hand into uncountable pieces in a single movement if he wanted to (he doesn't) could come just as fast with a little validation, how much he _needs_ that meaningless validation; how Rumlow and _this_ are the only things that made sense in his blood-slick of a daily grind?

"Go on. If you've got something to say, _say it_."

Rumlow forcibly tilts his face up toward him, eyes commanding and madly arousing all the same. His cock twitches in his pants where he wishes he'd just be allowed to ease some of this with touch already, even if he doesn't deserve it and Rumlow never would himself— unless he wanted to see his reaction, and it's momentarily hard to find the breath to answer, let alone to the other's satisfaction… and he does want to please him so very badly. Desperately, even. That much had probably been all too evident in the subdued, muffled moans around Rumlow's cock as he'd let him fuck his mouth beforehand, and the way he rutted down against nothing and gotten hot just as swiftly in response.

"I…"

The grip on his jaw tightens.

"Well?"

He has to say it. He says to say it, because… it makes sense, and then maybe Rumlow will give him what he wants but doesn't deserve. He'll feel the push of Rumlow's heavy body against him, rough and piercing and _too much_ , _too hard_ , _too big_ ; Rumlow's fingers in his mouth and his teeth to his ear, body eagerly pounding back onto his thick arousal. The words themselves don't make sense because it isn't something he is permitted, something he tries to scrape at the corners of his thoughts to grasp, but that's why he has to say them, the meaning seemingly clearer in his mind than most things ever were anymore. They tumble from him sounding foreign and heady and rasped like a dying man's last words, hitching midway as he makes eye contact with his keeper, the look of disapproval but _expectance_ making his skin crawl with desire as strong as confusion.

"I…love you."

Silence. His vision swims as the soldier's lips flare slowly and no words are offered, expression gaining first a look of disgust and disbelief and then, _God_ , something that makes his dick throb with a surge of arousal and humiliation— bitter amusement. Rumlow's expression twists into a wry one, and he's violently pushing him away, something darkly promising in the soldier's eyes that drives a shudder down his spine even as he's looked down upon. No, _because_ he'd been high enough to be looked down on in the first place.

" _Good._ "

He's gone before the so-called "Winter Soldier" can even think to beg for him to stay, leaving him with little more than his unresolved shame and a mess on his face. But he'll wait— for what he knows he'll graciously receive. What he _deserves_. What Rumlow is going to give him like always, again and _again_.


End file.
